


Draco Malfoy and the Very Vexing Vampire

by slashedsilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Halloween, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:01:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashedsilver/pseuds/slashedsilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Eighth Years' Halloween party, Draco finds himself being stalked by a stray, slinking, sneaky vampire. He minds, of course. Terribly much so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Draco Malfoy and the Very Vexing Vampire

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Fluffy Halloween Fest at hd_fluff, for dracogotgame's wonderful prompt, "Draco is being chased by a rogue, randy vampire and it's really messing with his day. Oh, and it's Potter. He did mention that part, didn't he?"
> 
> Thank you, dracogotgame, for the amazing beta. This fic is so much better because of you. Thanks for the awesomely catchy title and the Lionheart Libation (yes, I used it anyway!)

"Hands, Potter!" Draco hissed, jerking out of Potter's grasp and covering his arse protectively.

Potter smiled dopily at him, flashing fake fangs with the movement. "But you've got such a nice one!"

"One that's for _me_ to behold," Draco snapped, grabbing his cape protectively around him, and feeling inordinately thankful for the extra protection.

Potter looked adorably confused for a moment— _not_ adorably, Draco told himself fiercely, just confused. "You mean you like to stare at your arse? Or you just like to hold it?" He contemplated that for a moment, then shrugged. "Well, I suppose I would too, if I had an arse like yours."

"You say it, Potter!" Blaise hooted raucously from across the room. Draco gritted his teeth. Blaise had an inconveniently good ear for awkward situations.

"See?" Potter smiled happily. "Blaise agrees with me."

"Since when have you called him _Blaise_?" Draco demanded.

Blaise grandly tipped his large fedora at Draco, and swished his magnificent trenchcoat a bit. Draco vaguely remembered Blaise explaining his Muggle-inspired costume idea to him at some point in that afternoon, but he'd been too preoccupied by Potter's absolutely vexing vampire costume to pay much attention to Blaise.

They were at Luna's house for a simple Halloween get-together, a little celebration Luna was hosting to lighten everyone's moods after the war. She had claimed it was to scare the Nargles out of her house, as she had been losing a lot of things recently. The Eighth Years hadn't argued, being all too happy to take any excuse to escape from the dreariness of the castle. Even Hogwarts hadn't been immune to the damages of the war, and the members of the Eighth Year Building and Rebuilding Committee (for the Building and Rebuilding of Hogwarts School and House Relations)—Granger would insist on introducing it by its full name—were being stretched thin with balancing both N.E.W.T.s lessons and Rebuilding work.

Professor McGonagall had been surprisingly quick to accede to the request. Much cheered, the Eighth Years had trooped over to Luna's place, to spend the Halloween afternoon helping with the decorations, food preparation, and making and transfiguring their costumes, and generally having the most fun they'd had since the war had ended.

Or, at least, most of them had had fun. Potter seemed to spend most of the afternoon alternating between brooding in a corner and staring fixedly at Draco when he thought he wasn't looking. And that was even before he'd transformed into this decidedly _not_ dashing vampire, complete with matching blood red waistcoat and overcoat with twin rows of shiny silver buttons down the front. Draco could barely tear his own eyes away. Blaise had been supremely annoyed at being ignored.

And now Potter was drunk, and had taken to slinking after him the whole night, as though he'd done more than just put a vampire costume on, but had started to behave like one too. All this was making Draco feel simultaneously flattered and annoyed for allowing himself to misinterpret Potter's advances as anything more than something borne of drunkenness.

"So about Blaise, you know..." Potter said now, waving a hand in the air vaguely.

And he was referring to Blaise by his given name! When had they gotten so close? Draco's mind worked furiously, trying to pinpoint a time during the Building and Rebuilding Committee meetings where they could possibly have had a chance to work together. It was strange, Draco thought, frowning. Draco was the one who ended up partnering Potter most of the time.

"No, actually," Draco said acidly, feeling unreasonably jealous. "I don't."

"Don't interrupt," Potter rebuked. "It's not polite." Draco worked his mouth soundlessly. "As I was saying, I just thought it would be nice to refer to your friends by their proper names."

"And why is that?" Draco said, bemused.

Potter giggled and didn't reply, taking a swig of the glass he was holding in his hand instead. Draco couldn't smell much alcohol on Potter's breath, but there was no doubt that the prat was completely sloshed.

"You might want to stay out of the punch," Draco said, unable to stop from reaching out to steady Potter as he wobbled slightly on his feet.

Potter beamed at him. "Draco! I knew you cared."

Thoroughly discomfited at being so familiarly addressed, Draco whipped his hand away. Potter looked disappointed.

"Well, it's been great catching up, Potter. You know, we should do this again sometime. Maybe when you're not half-drunk." Draco beat a hasty retreat, leaving Potter looking somewhat lost by the chips bowl.

As Draco went, he mentally patted himself on his back for his self-restraint, and admired the way his cloak billowed out around him as he strode across the room. It really was good material, he mused, glancing down at it as it sparkled—and then very nearly missed colliding into a swashbuckling pirate on her way out from the kitchen. Luna Lovegood was precariously balancing an axe in one hand, and a tray of pink, umbrella-adorned glasses of unknown substance on the other. A couple of them seemed dangerously close to wobbling their way off the tray altogether.

"Oh, hello, Draco," she greeted, as Draco took a few calming breaths to slow his heart down, while surreptitiously checking his outfit for unexpected spills. "You're looking lovely."

"Thank you, Luna," he replied, because he wasn't about to be snappish with Luna, even if she _had_ almost painted his outfit red. "You're looking very striking yourself."

"I'm an explorer of the 17th century," she offered helpfully. "Father said they came with their own swords and belts, and enjoyed wine and galleons, though I can't imagine the last one to be particularly tasty. I'm more hoping to find myself a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, so that I can document its migratory cycle. I'm positive I've seen one of those in Britain recently, so it must be that it travels down south from time to time."

Draco smiled, the affection unwillingly tugged out of him as it was whenever he saw Luna nowadays. "Well, if anyone could find it, I'm sure it'd be you."

Luna's eyes were bright. "You'll find your own Snorkack, too, you know. It might even be tonight."

He opened his mouth to reply, but the barest flash of red caught his attention from the corner of his eye. He scowled as it appeared again, this time nearer still, from behind the couch. "Please excuse me, Luna. I think I need to make a quick run to the bathroom." Before his self-appointed shadow caught up.

"Draco," Luna said, a half-smile on her face. "Don't run away forever."

Slightly perplexed as he was whenever he finished a conversation with Luna, Draco gave her a warm smile in response, and then fled to the bathroom.

Entering Luna's tiny bathroom, Draco locked the door behind him and stared at his flushed cheeks in the mirror. _Damn that Potter._ Even when he was being regarded like a suspicious criminal, he was still affected by Potter's intense gaze.

"Enough of all this," he growled at his reflection, turning the cold water on and splashing it on his face. Blinking through the wetness, he reached for a towel.

"Come on, sweetie, you won't win your sweetheart like this," the mirror scolded. Draco paused mid-wipe.

"He doesn't even like me anyway," he said, feeling his stomach twist uncomfortably at the admission. His fingers tightened in the towel. Saying it out just seemed to make it even more real.

"You've just proven my point," the mirror said, reprovingly. "How are you going to win his heart if you've already given up?"

Draco didn't reply, just cast his eyes down and watched the residual droplets of water coalesce and slip down the drain. He wasn't even sure if Harry _wanted_ to be won by him.

"Unless..." the mirror continued, somewhat slyly, "you're happy seeing him with someone else?"

A mental image of the Weaslette enthusiastically slinging her arm through Potter's flitted through his mind, and his mouth tightened at the picture.

"There's the spirit!" the mirror praised. "Now straighten yourself out, and go get him!"

Buoyed by the encouragement of the mirror (Draco didn't let himself think about what it meant to place such stock in a mirror's opinions), he combed down the loose parts of his hair with his fingers, and straightened out his cloak again. He was supposed to be a prince tonight. He would bear the outfit with dignity. Draco took one last glance at himself in the mirror—the grey eyes, the blue cape, his fitted pants. He matched beautifully, and he wasn't going to let anyone forget it. Least of all Potter.

He lifted his chin, and swung the door open.

"Ouch!" a muffled thump sounded on the other side of the door. A vampire, swathed in brilliant red, edged gingerly out from behind the door.

"Potter!" Draco wheezed, clutching his heart. "What are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you," Potter replied, green eyes wide and adoring, though his hand continued to rub his forehead. The expression did something to Draco's insides, and he had to look away from Potter's eyes. Thankfully, he had a good excuse.

"Let me see that," Draco ordered. "Take your hands away from your head."

Potter's answering grin was positively lascivious. "Would you like me to put them anywhere else in particular?"

"No!" Draco yelped, trying to banish his inappropriate thoughts. He forced himself to look sternly at Potter. "Do you want me to look at your bump or not?"

"Only if you look at something else after that," Potter said with a saucy wink.

"That's it," Draco declared firmly. He raised his voice and addressed Potter. "You can walk around with that lump on your head for the rest of the night. _I'm_ not going to care."

Potter's arms snagged him around his waist as he tried to walk away. "Don't go! I'll behave."

"You'd better," Draco muttered, but then relented and reached out to examine the bump more closely. For such messy hair, it was surprisingly soft, and Draco couldn't help but run his fingers through them longer than was strictly necessary for him.

"Found what you're looking for?" Potter said, voice slightly breathless. His face was too near, and when Draco met his eyes automatically to respond, his breath caught at the sight of Potter, closer to him than he'd ever been before. Potter's tongue snaked out and swiped over his bottom lip, and Draco's eyes followed the movement. "Draco?"

Draco watched Potter's mouth form the vowels, and then lift into a knowing smirk, and wondered if it was possible to get tipsy on someone else's breath.

It was the sensation of Potter's hands sliding up his side that shocked him into action again. "Potter!" he said in a strangled tone. "Hands!"

Potter smiled innocently at him. "I was just helping you to get closer, so that you could get a better angle."

"No! If I haven't made it clear to you all night already, I'm fine like this! I don't need you to get closer and I certainly don't need your hands on me!" Draco whipped his wand out of his pocket and aimed it surely at Potter, who looked taken aback at Draco's threatening pose. Draco opened his mouth, and pronounced doom on Potter. "Episkey!"

Potter's grateful smile could have lit up the room. "Have I told you how much I like it when you take charge like this? It gives me the happy shivers."

"No," Draco said suspiciously. "Because you usually don't think so."

Potter's eyes widened in denial. "What do you mean? I've always felt this way."

"So why do you always look so disgruntled when I suggest ideas to the Building and Rebuilding committee?" Draco demanded. "You're always the first to get that"—he waved his hand in the air, searching for the word—"frowny look on your face," he finished lamely.

"Oh, that." Potter giggled, making Draco feel even more disconcerted. Potter leaned closer, and swayed a little as he misjudged the distance. "That's not my frowny face," he confided in a whisper. "That's my— _turned on_ face." He looked abjectly horrified after he'd said that. "But don't tell anyone that!"

Draco was torn between laughing at Potter's earnest expression and feeling incredibly sympathetic that Potter had shared something so personal, when he wouldn't have done such a thing fully sober. He wasn't ready to feel flattered though. Not when Potter couldn't possibly mean it.

"Exactly how many glasses of punch did you consume, Potter?"

Potter's brow furrowed in concentration, and Draco resisted the urge to smooth it away. "There was the one I drank when I first arrived," Potter began, counting on his fingers, "the one when you were talking to Justin during the costume-makingmanother two more when you came out dressed as some medieval prince—and I've had about two every hour since the actual party started." He stared at his fingers as though they were foreign to him. "What number am I up to now?"

"Eleven glasses, Potter?" Draco wasn't sure if he was horrified or impressed. "It's a wonder you're still standing. Come on, Potter." He placed a placating hand on Potter's back, steering him gently down the corridor. "Let's get you some Sobriety Potion."

" _No,_ " Potter insisted, digging in his heels. "I don't want any."

"Why not?" Draco asked, baffled.

"There's something I need to do." Potter shuffled his feet guiltily. "I can't do it when I'm—when I'm _sober_."

Draco was extremely bewildered. "What's so important that you have to down eleven glasses of spiked punch in order to do it?"

Potter didn't reply, but his eyes were big and earnest and made Draco's heart ache to look at them.

Draco sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Regardless, I really think we need to get you some of that potion. Trust me, you're going to hate me if I let you run around like this any longer."

"I wouldn't," Potter mumbled. "I could never hate you."

Somehow feeling inconceivably sad, Draco closed his eyes against the adoration in Potter's face. "Do it for my sanity then. Because I don't think I can take this much longer."

He opened his eyes to a look of extreme hurt on Potter's face, before he swept away, leaving Draco still standing at the bathroom door. "Oh, no."

Draco didn't see Potter for the rest of the evening.

As certain as his shadow had been faithfully following him since the start of the party, he was just as certainly avoiding Draco now. Draco told himself it didn't matter, but he couldn't stop thinking about the expression he'd seen on Potter's face, and how hurt he'd looked when he'd left.

"Draco, darling, who _exactly_ are you looking at?" Pansy drawled, finally tired of Draco's attention drifting away from her.

Caught, Draco tried to squirm out of it. "No one."

Pansy raised an eyebrow archly as she dusted off some of the fairy dust covering her (rather scanty) costume. "Are you trying to tell me that it was the canapés which have summoned your attention?"

"They _are_ really good canapés," Draco argued weakly.

Pansy studied him for a while, and Draco quailed slightly under his best friend's assessing eyes, which had been spelled blue to match her form-fitting fairy costume. As she lifted a contemplative hand, fairy dust sprinkled into the air. It was really just a powder with hints of low grade Amortentia, not enough to be illegal, but enough to weaken defenses and ensure that almost every male in her vicinity would be hanging on her arm that night. At least, any male who was attracted to such things.

"Potter's in the garden," Pansy said abruptly, interrupting Draco's thoughts.

Draco did a double-take, barely managing to keep his surprise from his face. "What?"

"I said," Pansy repeated, a wicked smirk stealing across her face at Draco's reaction, "that Potter's in the garden. But only if you're looking for him, of course."

Draco made some sputtering noises of denial, which Pansy wholly ignored. "Oh, look! I think I'm going to get me some of those canapés. You're right, they really do look lovely." She lifted a gloved hand and wiggled her fingers, causing more fairy dust to drift into the air. "Toodles."

Left on his own, Draco tried not to look too eager to act on the new knowledge. He meandered by the punch bowl and pretended to be interested in its contents, all the time extremely conscious of Pansy watching him avidly from across the room. Leaving too early would just prove that she was right about who he'd been moping about all night, and he'd never be able to live it down if she got her claws into that one...

He flashed back again on the look Potter had given him before he'd left. "Oh, fuck it," Draco muttered. He grabbed one of the brightly coloured drinks and tossed it back, determinedly not looking at what would be a victorious expression on Pansy's face.

As the liquid burned down his throat, he headed for the garden.

The moonlight cast everything into light and shadow, a vast contrast to the brightly lit house where he'd emerged from. Several carved pumpkins (Dean had insisted on the tradition) were softly aglow with candlelight, highlighting a few couples who had chosen to escape into the relative quiet and peace of the garden, all still dressed (to various degrees) in their costumes for the night.

It took him a while to find Potter. He didn't seem to be anywhere on the main path, or anywhere near the house at all, and Draco desperately hoped he wasn't half of one of the smiling, giggling, snogging couples he walked past.

Rounding a corner, he finally found Potter—sitting somewhat somberly on a stone bench. With the Weaslette by his side. They appeared to be—Draco peered at them cautiously, resisting the urge to hide behind his fingers—talking, just talking, he thought with relief.

The Weaslette spotted him first, and stood abruptly when he halted in his steps. He debated whether it was the wiser option to just go back into the house, and whether it was altogether too late to be contemplating this.

"Malfoy," the Weaslette said. It was not a nice smile she had on her face.

"I was just walking by," he said, immediately defensive. "This path is still open to all, isn't it?"

"Oh, no you don't." She grabbed his shoulder as he tried to squirm past. "Harry, do you need me to punch him for you?" She raised a menacing fist.

Draco flinched involuntarily at the threat. Why did all of Potter's female friends seem to enjoy employing their powerful right hooks?

Thankfully, Potter slid in between them, and gave the Weaslette a look that Draco couldn't decipher. "Gin."

She scowled. "Well, fine, you two sort it out then!" She glared at Draco, as though Potter butchering her name and referring to her as a type of liquor was _his_ fault. "Just send word if you need back-up. You know where I'll be if you need me." She cracked her knuckles, gave Draco one last look of warning, and then left them. The two of them. There in the moonlight, amidst all the kissing couples. Alone. Alone together.

"So, Potter," Draco started, slightly panicked and trying to take his mind off kissing. As in, kissing in the sense of what everyone else was doing, not that he was thinking of kissing anyone in an any more personally related manner. And now he was confusing himself even in his thoughts.

"Draco," Potter replied, the vestiges of soft amusement playing around his lips, and a resigned look on his face. He had removed the fangs, Draco noticed. He'd also removed his cloak. It was lying there now, on the bench, and Potter's shoulders were gleaming in the moonlight. Well, they probably weren't. But to Draco's feverish eyes, they might as well have been.

Draco felt woozy. He blamed it on the pink drink and the poor lighting. Potter was still looking at him, and Draco cast desperately around for something to say. "Did you manage to find the Sobriety Potion, then?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Potter's face shut down immediately. "Yes, I did." His voice was guarded, holding none of the openness Draco had become accustomed to over the course of the evening. "Well," he said, looking around, and taking his cloak from where it lay on the stone bench, "it's been nice meeting you here." There was a sense of finality in his words. "I better get back before Ginny gets worried."

"Stop!" Draco blurted, not aware that he'd reached out to grab Potter until he realised he was clutching on to one nicely muscled arm. He snatched his hand away as though he was burned.

Potter had a long-suffering expression on his face. "Was there something you wanted? It's usually helpful to voice it out. You know, verbally, so that someone else can actually hear you."

"Are you making fun of me?" Draco said suspiciously. "I think I preferred you when you were drunk."

Potter rolled his eyes. (He _rolled_ his _eyes_. Draco was offended.) "Who was the one who kept jabbering about the Sobriety Potion, then?"

"I did not _jabber_. You were the one with the loose lips!" Draco accused, pointing a hysterical finger at him. "You kept saying things you didn't mean. I was trying to stop you!"

Potter went quiet. "What do you mean, saying things I didn't mean?" He sounded dangerous. If anything, his gaze became even more intense.

Draco swallowed, and took a step back. Was he absolutely sure that Potter wasn't a vampire? He sure looked menacing right now. "Y-you know, about liking me and all that rot." He forced a careless laugh. "As if you could ever mean that!"

"I never said anything about liking you," Potter said, eyes shadowed.

Draco's heart dropped. With sudden apprehension, he carefully scanned through every single conversation he'd had with Potter that evening… and realised with dismay that Potter was right. He had never mentioned liking Draco. Alluded to it, maybe... or maybe that was just Draco's wishful thinking. The crushed feeling in his chest was beginning to be a familiar companion now.

But there was something else niggling at his mind—something about what Potter had said… "Wait. If you were so drunk, how come you're so clear about that? Even a Sobriety Potion wouldn't have been enough to restore any alcohol-addled memories."

Potter cleared his throat uncomfortably, and Draco was quite sure that it wasn't just his imagination that Potter's cheeks seemed to darken in the night. "Well. I may just have taken a Lionheart Libation at the start of the evening instead."

A Lionheart Libation. Liquid courage, giving the drinker the strength to admit things he normally wouldn't. _Because of the potential dangers when mixed with a perspective-influencing substance like alcohol, the Libation is always decanted with moonflower, for immunity against such substances..._

"So you were just pretending to be drunk." Draco didn't know what to feel.

Potter winced. "I wasn't sure if you'd hear me otherwise. In any case, I truly _was_ slightly tipsy."

"You've got me now. I'm listening." Waiting for Potter to make his move was safe. Draco knew all about being safe.

Potter squared his shoulders. "You know, about what you said... " _Potter was coming closer,_ Draco thought inanely, and almost missed Potter's next words. "It made me think."

"Oh?" was all Draco managed. He tried looking away from Potter's eyes, but then his traitorous gaze fell to Potter's lips instead, and wow, that was not a good alternative at all.

Potter's mouth crooked into the smallest smile, and Draco watched it move. "Yes. It made me think that, maybe—just maybe—all this isn't just wishful thinking on my part."

"All—this?" Draco wished his mouth would know when to remain closed. The couple of syllables issuing from it every ten seconds were not helpful at all.

Potter was very near now. The moon helpfully shifted out from behind a cloud, so that Draco could better appreciate every individual eyelash and the gleam of Potter's eyes. Potter smelled of musk and grass and warm clothes, and he was coming closer still.

"Draco," Potter said, stopping in front of Draco. His voice was very serious. "I'm going to kiss you now." Slowly, he leaned in, and then he hesitated. "Try not to punch me."

It was nice of Potter to give him warning, Draco thought, but also entirely unhelpful, seeing as he couldn't do much more than sigh into Potter's mouth as their lips met, noses bumping slightly. Potter's breath was warm, and tasted like pumpkin juice and something minty that he must have eaten right before he'd come to the garden. Draco let his eyes slide shut, nerves tingling with excitement and disbelief as Potter's tongue slicked wetly into his mouth.

Potter's _tongue_ was in his _mouth_. Draco felt he could explode with joy. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, and he wondered if Harry could hear it. As they pulled apart, a giddy, light-headed sensation remained, and Draco felt like bursting into laughter.

"Oh. That's disturbing," he said, as he realised what an appallingly mushy direction his thoughts were taking. "Not you, of course," he put in hurriedly, before Potter did his huffy thing again and stormed off.

"I figured as much," Potter said, looking unbearably smug. "You didn't seem to be protesting as much with my tongue was in your mouth."

"Potter!" Draco gasped, pretending to be scandalised. "How can you talk about it like that? Be honest, it was my arse that caught your attention first."

Potter smirked. "Actually, it was your poncy outfit."

 _That's not my frowny face,_ Potter was saying in his memory. _That's my—_

Draco stifled a laugh. Potter could have this victory if he wanted. Draco had everything else, right down to his own personal vampire shadow.

In any case, Draco thought, as he leaned in for another kiss, there would be plenty of time for revenge. Maybe next Halloween.


End file.
